Their Final Mission
by ActionFantasyLuver
Summary: Ten years after Rollin and Cinnamon depart the IMF they meet again - and recall the staggering events, that final mission, that nearly destroyed them both. This story is complete! 10/1/12.
1. Chapter 1

**Their Final Mission**

INTRODUCTION

[]

_1980._

When she saw him her heart nearly stopped.

It was at a popular shopping mall in down town Los Angeles, of all places. She had walked from _Caroline's, _trendy aqua bag in hand, and made a quick turn. She looked up just in time to see Rollin Hand walking, with a slight limp, in her direction.

They made eye contact and she watched him slow, the recognition as awkward for him as it was for herself. Cinnamon thought for a moment he might pass her by, pretend he hadn't noticed her. She averted her eyes, almost hoping he would, but then she heard him clear his throat.

"How are you?" he asked softly, now standing tentatively by her side.

She tried to smile and looked up at him. Rollin was still tall and handsome. Tanned and lean, his dark hair was tinged ever so slightly with gray. He wore a blue shirt with a gray ribbing. "Fine." she managed and, unaware, reached with her free hand to the back of her collar.

"It's been a long time." Rollin's eyes followed her reaction, her slender fingers massaging both neck and shoulders. She was still lovely, her blond hair slightly longer than he remembered, falling in soft waves around her fair face. She wore an elegant floral dress and it suited her, he thought.

Cinnamon nodded and dropped her hand. She hadn't realized what she was doing until she saw him watching her closely. "Yes, fancy meeting you here." she chuckled, uncomfortably. "Here with the wife?" she asked, having read something in the L.A. Times about he and an heiress a few years ago, and quickly realized how silly she sounded.

"No wife. Haven't had one for quite awhile." he replied, his tone thick with an unstated irony. "Just buying a new sport jacket. Looking a little shabby they tell me."

There was silence as they gazed at one another, neither sure how to continue. Their eyes betrayed them. A yearning was present that neither, for the moment, was willing to voice.

"Cinnamon, I …"

"I have to go." she suddenly said.

A pause.

"Yeah, me too." He reached forward and took her hand, "But I would like to talk with you. We need ..."

Cinnamon stood still, his warmth both tantalizing and terrifying her. "Goodbye, Rollin."

She pulled away and moved past him, not giving her former colleague the chance to continue. Their encounter had brought back so many memories, some profoundly good but most terrifying. Cinnamon had buried her days as a special agent deep inside. The memory of danger and fear would remain there, locked away, for all time. It was the way she wanted it. It was how she survived.

With purpose, Cinnamon willfully breathed in and out as she walked. She was a strong woman but right now she wanted nothing more than to go home, to her fortress, and climb into bed.

Sleep always helped when she started to recall the past; the horror of that last mission with Rollin Hand ... and the Impossible Missions Force.

[]

_**(Just the introduction but what do you think? Want to read more?)**_


	2. Chapter 2

[2]

September 1969.

The slap against her cheek was hard, might have left a bruise to go along with the others on her body if it had not been delivered by a leather gloved hand. "Talk, woman!"

She would not say a word. Cinnamon Carter had been trained well. She told herself she was not afraid to die. She was prepared for it. But she knew her death would not be quick. There would be so much more torture, for both she and her companion …

They seemed to focus on her shoulders and neck for some reason, burning her, cutting her, shocking her there. Once, she even had the nerve to ask why.

"Such a beautiful face." her torturer had said, "If I must come here everyday and inflict such punishment, why would I destroy the only pleasant thing I have to look at?"

His smile was cold and cruel and she never asked him another thing, even though he often talked non-stop, obviously enjoying the suffering he caused.

Cinnamon could hear Rollin's agonized cries from down the hall. She did not want to think about what they might be doing to him, how they were working him over, applying hot pokers, twisting arms and legs, slicing his skin …

How she wished this was all a part of a finally crafted plan devised by Jim Phelps. Unfortunately, it was not. Both she and Rollin had been caught, the false bottom of his suitcase discovered by the Solinian Security Division, it's classified contents revealed.

A good actor, Rollin tried to talk it away but they were in too deep and the authorities were not receptive to his claims. He then attempted to make them think Cinnamon had absolutely nothing to do with his dealings, she a mere operative, and if they let her leave she would say nothing. Again, he was not believed.

They were both sent here, to this eastern European prison, where the powers that be thought the agents were aware of far more than what they truly knew. Finally, knowing no other way out, she and Rollin gave them the story concocted when something so potentially devastating occurred during an assignments. They were for hire, he and she, being paid generously by an unknown benefactor to smuggle secrets from their country.

Cinnamon's Austrian accent left her during the third time she was subjected to electric shock. She had simply forgotten her false identity and whole sections of her immediate memory left her. She had a difficult time recalling from day to day the events of the day or sometimes even the week before their capture. Much of her affliction had to do with the physical torment but also the drugs they injected into her blood stream. Focusing had become a challenge.

Although both she and Rollin had been beaten numerous times, Rollin's torture was more brutally physical while hers was, she came to understand, primarily mental. She could not see Rollin now but earlier in the day she could hear his shouts and moans, as he neared the end of the session. It nearly broke her heart because she knew his time was near. They were going to kill him soon … and probably herself as well.

The only satisfaction they had was that neither of them had cracked.

_Rollin. _She focused on him and what he had meant to her through this ordeal. He was so strong. _Rollin. _He had given her the strength to continue … his words … promises … and there was something more there she could not quite put a finger on.

Early on, their cells were next to each other and they could talk, keeping their mental states from fracturing under the strain, feeling comfort just by knowing the other was close. They clung to the fact that they were both still alive and, for the most part, formidable. But the authorities eventually moved them away from one another, realizing the man and woman gained a kind of potency from their verbal exchanges.

Parted, they started to communicate through Morse Code, tapping against the bars of their cells. He told her he was sure Jim had a rescue plan in motion and they would be out within days. But whatever plan Phelps had developed was not implemented as quickly as Rollin had thought. They had been held and tormented for two weeks or perhaps it was longer. The days and methods of persecution were running into one another. The pain, mental and physical, was constant. And no rescue seemed forth-coming.

Then one day, just when Cinnamon's mind's eye pictured her employee file with a huge "disavow" stamped on the front and slid to the back of a vast cabinet, she saw something that boggled the mind.

Willy Armitage. He was before her in the cell, rifle in hand, and handsome in his well starched uniform. He stood beside an impressive fair-haired man with a mustache … _Jim? _He demanded the prisoners turned over to him at once. There was a shuffle of some kind and Cinnamon remembered being grasped hard by the arms and propelled into the hallway outside her cell.

Down the dark corridor, she saw Barney Collier and one of the guards or, at least a man who was dressed like a guard, wheeling an unconscious Rollin from his cell. He lay on a gurney, wounded but alive and whole, and appeared so helpless she instinctively wanted to run to him.

But she could not. She didn't want to give it away … _And the mission … She couldn't give that away either … The all important mission …._

Forms were exchanged as she and Willy watched Phelps talk with her jailor. The strong man, holding her upper arm, gave her an oh so gentle squeeze … reassurance, she knew.

Later, in a van, with Rollin laying across from her, she stared at him. He was semi-conscious, bruised with what looked like a broken leg, and was obviously still in pain. However, he had enough perception to know where he was and appreciate they had finally been set free.

He turned and focused on her. He smiled mildly. Then his hand moved from beneath the blanket covering him and reached out. He took Cinnamon's hand in his, gently squeezing her fingers.

They did it. They made it out of alive.

Cinnamon could not return his smile. She felt numb on the inside. Later, after a thorough mental evaluation, she was advised it was shock. She was told many things that should have stunned and upset her about the torture she received - but her training as an agent had given her a tough outer skin. Inside, she was coping. There was little else she could do but deal with what had happened to she and Rollin.

Yet, often times it was much easier said than done.

[]

1980.

He drank.

It was a nice place, a bar he had frequented often, and the man behind the counter, Louie, was a good listener.

"And that was the last tine you saw her? Ten years ago, Mr. Howard?"

_Robert Howard. _It was the name he was given after his debriefing.

"She is still as beautiful as a rose …" he murmured.

"And you still got it bad for her, eh?" The counterman wiped off the surface in front of him with a white towel.

"We have a history." Rollin closed his eyes and drank his gin.

"Pretty darn intense one I'm thinking."

Rollin could almost chuckle at the thought, "Yeah, intense, Louie." he said and downed the rest of his drink. He pushed his glass forward on the counter, indicating he wanted another.

Tentatively, the bartender poured. Louie read people well and this guy seemed the decent type. He had been in many times over the last few months, shooting pool and talking with some of the other men, but he had never drank to excess until tonight. His hands were shaking and the expression on his face was severe. "So, are you going to try an see her again, Mr. Howard?" Louie asked, a little nervous. He never pictured Howard as a wife beater or violent in any way but he had heard plenty stories of men, with that same grim appearance, leaving bars then using a shot-gun on either themselves or their families.

"No, she's made it clear she doesn't want to see me again." Rollin lifted the glass once again to his lips then hesitated. He slowly lowered the glass as a thought came to him. He looked Louie in the eyes, "See you later." he said, laying some cash on the counter.

Rollin, limping slightly, made a quick exit.

He carried the cash over to the register, "What did that woman do to you?" Louie wondered.

[]

She had showered, spending far longer under the water than necessary. It relaxed her and she was grateful for its warmth, soothing her limbs … the back of her neck … her shoulders …

Cinnamon dried herself well and wrapped her hair in a towel. She then slipped into her favorite thick robe and sat in front of the living room fireplace with a glass of white wine. She stared at the flames, trying hard not to think of the past but unable to stop it.

Seeing Rollin at the mall had made her remember that time again and part of her hated him for causing the recollection. Yet, another part of her yearned for what his existence had offered. Could still offer …

No, she would never see him again.

A hand moved to her neck and shoulders, a gentle touch, massaging … _stimulating_. And it was his hands, tracing a finger over the nape of her neck, his eyes examining her … and finally there were kisses against her warm flesh. An incredible release …

She did not want to remember more … _("oh, yes you do.")._

Why, after so many years, was she lost?

[]

_To be continued._


	3. Chapter 3

[]

June 1970.

They had been in therapy for months, both physical and mental. After a significant amount of time had passed, off the record appraisals were conducted.

Cinnamon, although still loyal, found it difficult to concentrate. One moment she would be focused and self assured, classically cool and in control. But then, without warning, she would find herself unsure and vulnerable. Her doctors told her it was to be expected. She found it unnerving.

She was seeing a psychiatrist and while their sessions were confidential, a certain amount of information was revealed to her superiors. Cinnamon's professional status was far too important; her good mental health key to the secret assignments she was sent on. The Secretary had to know what was going on in her head. There were some things she absolutely would not reveal or allow herself to think about, even with Dr. Evans encouragement. She had spent so many years hiding behind a mask, achieving an image of seductive detachment, she now used it to perfection - even on those who needed to know the facts.

This was not the first time Miss Carter had been captured. While she made a full recovery a couple years ago, snapping back as if nothing had ever happened, she had been imprisoned and tormented for mere days. Solinia had been different. Very different.

Dr. Evans summed her up in two words: _Stubborn_ _Denial. _Cinnamon had blocked out a great deal of what had happened to her in East Europe. She did not want to remember and a cerebral safety mechanism had blocked out the more disquieting events during her capture. That might work well for any woman who's emotional well being did not effect the stability of her country, but not for a woman like Cinnamon. It was decided that Miss Carter would not be returning to the IMF. The danger of a mental break-down during an assignment was far too great. The Secretary could not and would not risk it.

She would adjust to her new life. Just as those before her had and those after her would.

Unfortunately, Rollin Hand's prognosis - his expectation of returning to the IMF - was not as enigmatic. His left leg was so badly damaged there was doubt early on that he would ever walk on it again. However, he did well in therapy, where a lesser man would crumble under the physical demands of his own regimen. Rollin challenged convention, wanting to do more and more to make himself better, to heal, to beat the odds. The clinic was amazed by his improvement. In a months time he was not just standing but actually walking. Two to three months later he was outright strolling, albeit with a limp, about the hospital.

Yet, in the end it did not matter. Critical eyes watched. He would never be the man he once was, important advisors said, and his future was decided long before he was counseled that his services were no longer required.

Jim Phelps told both agents. One took it well but the other did not.

[]

They were given an impressive retirement package, both leaving the IMF a wealthy man and woman. Neither would have to work again. As a matter of fact, it was strongly suggested they did _not_ attempt any kind of high profile job. It was important for them to be the type of people who could get lost in a crowd. While their names had been changed, as a safety precaution, peril was not unheard of. They might be recognized for the agents they once were.

Especially now. The couple maintained the only thing the enemy knew was that Cinnamon was either British or American, do to her slight slip up during an electric shock session, and Rollin was a trained agent of some kind, an enemy to be dealt with.

No one truly knew how much Cinnamon and Rollin had exposed, even though both testified they had never cracked under torture. However, photographs, fingerprints, blood samples and God knows what else had been taken by their assailants and that alone meant disaster; the mission had been a failure, a red mark on Jim Phelps successful record. Someone had to pay and Phelps was too valuable.

They had been called in together for their debriefing, then seen separately. It was a large government building. At the end of the day, when it was time to go home, they found themselves walking down the hall together, shoulder to shoulder.

"Where are you going?" he asked, looking ahead of them at the exit, expressionless.

"Home." she replied, noting his limp and how it did not seem to slow Rollin down.

"Are you hungry?"

"I could eat."

"How about _Le Gerdon_." he asked.

"Pricey."

"I think we can afford it … _now_."

Cinnamon nodded and slowed, "Rollin, you are asking me out … on a date?"

He smiled mildly, slowing with her. "Does that shock you?"

"Are you sure?" she asked, thoughtfully.

"Cinnamon," He took her elbow now, stopping their progress, and turned to look at her. "Why not? We have no reason not to see each other. I have always had feelings for you - and I think you know that. And if I'm being presumptuous please correct me … but I think you've also enjoyed my company as well."

"Yes." she admitted.

"We are no longer agents and there is no reason for us to hold back. Let's go out and see if we can …" He searched for the word.

"… find mutual ground?"

They both smiled.

"I think we've already established that we have that." he chuckled, mildly.

Indeed, after working nearly five years together the connection was obvious.

[]

1980.

Her head lulled ever so slightly, eyes closed as she felt the warmth of the fire, sipping her wine, and with her free hand pulling the damp towel from her hair, running fingers through the strands.

She smiled gently, recalling a French play, _Le Garçon et l'aveugle. _Rollin had brought her to the performance. Any other man, wanting to make a good impression, might have taken her to something romantic but this had been a farce, a two character piece between two men. Cinnamon had laughed that evening, they both had, and dinner at the _Tei Room _was amazing.

He then he took her home, she invited him in, they had talked, had a nightcap, and before either knew what was happening they were in each others arms, sweet and gentle at first then passionate and wanting ... She had needed him so badly! It should have been beautiful but … it was a … _debacle._

Cinnamon's smile faded.

"Susan!" he called, "Susan Cartier!"

She started, hearing the familiar voice, the call of someone not quite in his right mind. And he was calling her name … the name she had been called for the last ten years, at least.

He was at her front gate, "Susan!"

Cinnamon got to her feet, crossed the polished wood floor to the apartments impressive picture window. She carefully parted the curtain to look out. She saw him, striking but inebriated.

Rollin had a bottle in his hand and when he spotted her he waved the other, "Let me in!"

"God." she whispered. This was a good neighborhood, with substantial people, bankers and movie studio executives, the types that would not tolerate a drunk man yelling at the top of his lungs outside their homes after ten o'clock in the evening. Cinnamon tightened the belt on her robe, slid into her slippers, and opened her front door. She rushed down the front path to the gate and watched him as he gazed at her approach. "What are you doing here?" she asked, slightly flustered, "Rollin, how did you …."

"Sh." he lifted an unsteady finger to his lips, "No one can know who I am … _Susaaaan_." he nearly chuckled. "Want a drink?" he asked, shaking the nearly empty bottle.

Cinnamon heard a window open from an upper floor of the apartment building. "Rollin, you need to go home." she urged.

"I want to talk." he said, "You were very mean to me today at the mall."

"I wasn't." she said, between the decorative iron bars. "But we have nothing further to say to one another."

"I think we do."

"Rollin …"

"Miss Cartier!" a call came from the opened window. It was Mr. Robbins, a retired navel officer. "Are you al right?" he called.

"Yes, Captain." she called, "He's a friend."

The man studied her for a moment then, somewhat satisfied but leery, nodded. " I will be here all night if you need me." He said in the way of a warning to Rollin, "Goodnight then." and he slowly closed the window.

"Good neighbor." Rollin said, slightly wobbly on his feet but the sarcasm was palpable.

"You need coffee," she said, "and lots of it." She took a breath and punched in a code, allowing Rollin access, "Follow me." she said, about facing.

He did and if she had seen his expression Cinnamon would have known that Rollin Hand was not as drunk as she thought he was. He was still a good actor.

[]

_To be continued._

[]

_Sorry for the hold up but I was attending ALPHA: 2012, A SPACE: 1999 EVENT in Burbank, California. It was a terrific weekend!_

_Thank you for the wonderful feedback! More chapters to come ..._


	4. Chapter 4

[4]

September 1970.

Plays. Movies. Dinners. Lunch. Museums. Shopping. Romantic strolls through the park.

They held hands, often she would simply take his arm and rest against him as they wandered Los Angeles. He loved the feel of her womanly shape against him when he put an arm around her slender shoulders. And that wasn't all he loved, Rollin decided, he loved her elegance and easy sense of humor. He loved her smile and cleverness. It had nothing to do with her intelligence, the smarts that had made her such a vital asset as an agent …. Or perhaps it had. For, she was smart and fun and sexy and completely unique. He was a man in love.

Rollin Hand had to admit it now. What had once been fascination, a man charmed by a beautiful woman, had developed into much more. The last couple weeks had been a revelation for him and he could only hope she was feeling some of the same sensations.

The couple conversed like never before. They spoke of their families, children, good times and bad. Life in general - but they never spoke about any of their past missions. It would have broke the spell. It was the present and future that mattered.

He never knew she had a brother who died of leukemia.

She did not know Rollin's mother had been a rather famous dancer in her day.

One evening they sat and talked in an all night diner and hadn't realized how long they had been there; drinking coffee, snacking, smoking and conversing until Rollin looked over her shoulder. Through a slightly smeared glass window he saw the sun come up.

Then the night of _Le Garçon et l'aveugle, _after dinner, she told him to take her home. Rollin had asked if she was not well and Cinnamon merely smiled at him.

"Fine." she had said with a rather inscrutable air.

Yes, the signals were unstated but clear.

Once in her comfortable apartment, a small one floor abode near Barley and 10th Street, he sat on the sofa and she brought him a drink. Cinnamon mentioned that she was eventually going to change residence to a nicer area of the city.

They also talked of the play. The two actors French accents were good. However he and Cinnamon - both competent actors - could have performed it much better. Cinnamon suggested Rollin join another theatrical company. He needed the creative outlet. He told her he just might do that one day but he had other interests at the moment.

They smiled at one another over their drinks then placed them on the coffee table before them. Both were comfortably silent for a moment. The couple merely sat and gazed at one another then Rollin lifted a hand and very gently cupped her smooth, flawless right cheek.

Cinnamon moved forward, fingers lifting to touch his hand, and her eyes closed as she sensed him moving in on her.

The kiss was gentle, romantic, and very intimate.

Rollin then held her, his arms enveloping her, and felt her lips part beneath his own. This had not been the first time he ever kissed Cinnamon Carter but, for both of them, it was the most sincere, tender, and emotionally significant moment they had ever shared together. "Cinnamon." he breathed her name, his lips moving from her mouth to gently skimmed over her inviting cheek, to kiss underneath her ear and neck.

"I ah …" her tone was somewhat ragged, "It's getting a little warm." she whispered.

"Warm?" When he pulled back a little, she took his face in both hands and brought her lips to his again, passionate and wanting. Then, when finally parting for air, Cinnamon push faintly from him and stood.

She had come to a decision.

Rollin was confused for a moment, wondering if he had done something wrong.

She walked from him, hovering slightly in front of her bedroom door, kicking off her high heels and patting the back of her hair. She then smiled softly, seductively, and said: "You don't _really_ want to sit on my sofa all night, do you?"

No, he did not and when her hand lifted in invitation Rollin was off the sofa in seconds.

[]

1980.

"How did you find out where I live?" she asked him, pouring Rollin another cup of coffee. Cinnamon puffed quickly and anxiously on her cigarette, agitated. When she offered him the pack he politely told her he had quit. That surprised Cinnamon because back in the day he had been an even heavier smoker than herself. "How?" she repeated.

"The patch." he said, "It's something new."

"No. _How did you know where I live?_"

He sat back in the kitchen chair slightly, cup in hand. "Not too difficult to find you." he said, sipping at the warm brew, "I was once a spy, you know."

_Always the funny man_, Cinnamon thought and slid into a chair cattycorner from him. She gazed at Rollin for a moment. He was still handsome and she felt regret. She wished he wasn't, that his good looks had faded, and he was a rude and crude drunk. That way she would not find it difficult to send him on his way when the time came. "_Why_ did you think it necessary, Rollin? Why did you come here?" she asked.

"I told you why. You were rude to me at the mall and we need to talk."

"I'm not stupid, Rollin …" She snuffed out her cigarette in a glass tray beside her.

"Of course you're not …"

"You being here is more than that and you know it."

He put the cup down. He should have known she would see through his disguise. There wasn't much that got by her keen sensibility. "I've been keeping an eye on you."

Her eyes grew wide, "For how long?"

"Years."

"What?" she was nearly breathless and a little frightened. "Have you been _spying_ on me?"

"Not like you think." Rollin pushed the coffee away. He said, "I tried to live a normal life. I worked, played, dated women, had sex, and even married for a short time. But nothing ever was as real for me as those two weeks before you kicked me out of your life. Hell," he sighed, "I even moved to New York for a couple years to forget but, somehow, I found myself back in Los Angeles. Then one day I ran into Barney Collier …"

"Barney?"

"His son had just started at M.I.T. and was home on break. The family was dining in the same restaurant as myself and the woman I was with. We waved, acknowledging one another but didn't make it too obvious, and I didn't think much about it. The next day I found a card in my mailbox and I invited him over. We talked."

"About?"

"The usual. Then he asked me about you. Barney thought we might have …" Rollin let the thought trail, "I told him I hadn't seen you in years but he could tell by my expression that I never …" he revealed, "I never quite got over you. He then asked me if I wanted to know if you were well. 'I have ways.' he explained and, knowing what Barney had done for us in the past, I believed him."

Cinnamon gently bit her lower lip, both nervous and a little sorry for Rollin. His search for her hadn't been idly curious. He really needed to know if she had been able to move on without him. "So Barney led you to me?"

"He helped. That was about five years ago." Rollin licked his lips and looked away from her, a little embarrassed. "I saw you at the _Jolie _fashion show a few years ago. I was sitting to the back and I saw you in the audience."

"But why …?"

"Do you remember Armand?"

Cinnamon rolled her eyes, "Who could forget him? He was a fashion buyer, a man of some importance, who made me very uncomfortable. He …" She suddenly looked at Rollin, "He had been sexually harassing me for weeks then one day, although he still bought from me, he stopped coming to my shows. He simply disappeared."

"Not so simply. He and I had a talk. I told him if he did not leave you alone I knew people. _Big_ people who still felt women were special, to be cherished, not hassled."

"You threatened him?"

"Yes, I did." Rollin admitted, without apology.

Cinnamon thought a moment then shrugged, "I should be shocked, affronted and disappointed but - right now - all I can say is … _thank you_. The man was frightening." She smiled at him and their eyes met. However, she quickly cleared her throat and added, "But you do realize how peculiar what you did was, don't you?"

"I suppose." Rollin relented, "I just didn't want to see you hurt."

Something occurred to her and Cinnamon asked, "Bumping into you at the mall … It was never an accident, was it?"

"I was never really clear what had happened to us, Cinnamon." he said, "I wanted … _needed_ to know what I had done."

"You did nothing. I told you. I just suddenly realized what a mistake we were making."

"And that is what I'm not clear about, Cinnamon. _Why_ was it a mistake?" His blue eyes met hers and did not waver, "Up until I entered your bedroom, when we started to make love, you wanted me as much as I wanted you - You sincerely seemed to care. But then something happened. _What _happened, Cinnamon?"

"You really want to know?"

He nodded.

"I started to remember …" she said and bowed her head.

[]

1970.

He had always known she was a beautiful woman but until now he did not realize just how stunning Cinnamon Carter really was. Her skin, beneath his hands and lips, was warm and pale, like white chocolate, and nearly luminous. She smelled of flowers, no doubt do to a shampoo or an expensive body lotion. Yet, part of him had to believe it was merely her own fragrance and he would carry the scent of her with him for years.

Her hands moved from his shoulders to the back of his head as he lay her on the bed, her fingers gently running through his hair. Only moment ago she had helped him off with his shirt, tie and jacket and he had unzipped the back of her dress and let it fall away, gently kicking it aside on the floor somewhere.

He was so adoring, wonderful and wanting ….

_And suddenly images of a time not so breathtaking intruded. Hands were on her, pulling at her clothes, and she could hear her own screams … She never remembered screaming … ever … but they had come at her … three men … One with something awful in his hands … One was a doctor … and one of the men was laughing … but … but …_

"Cinnamon … Cinnamon …" He lay on top of her now, fervent, careful and guiding himself inside, feeling her open to him …

_More images … please don't …. "Tramp!"_

"_Do you know what we do to women like you? Treacherous whore!"_

She was gasping now … "Oh …" Cinnamon cried. "No, don't …"

These were not cries of passion and Rollin lifted himself slightly off of her, still joined, looking at her tormented expression, frightened. "Cinnamon?" he asked, searching, a hand touching her hair and cheek. She was looking past him at something he could not see. "Are you … all right?"

"We can't … _we can't _… Mistake. Such a mistake!" She then focused on Rollin and pushed him away from her. She sat up in the bed and her hand reached for the back of her neck. It hurt. Oh god, it _hurt_! Cinnamon gathered up the sheet around her, covering herself, and was off the bed and across the room, sobbing and deeply afraid.

"What's wrong?" he asked, stunned. "Cinnamon, tell me! What did I do?"

"Nothing! You have to go!"

"I don't understand!"

"Please, just get dressed and get out!"

He quickly did as he was told, watching her the entire time, heartsick and acutely disturbed. Dressed, he tried to reason with her again. She stood near her closet, the sheets still wrapped around her. She had hardly moved an inch, her hair tousled from their love making, and her expression was so tormented and pained Rollin felt he had to try again. "I'll leave as you ask but I need to know how to help you, Cinnamon. Tell me …"

"Don't ever come back." she whispered, "Don't call. I don't want to see you again … ever!"

Rollin was dumbstruck. The happiest night of his life had turned into a nightmare!

_[]_

_To be continued …_


	5. Chapter 5

[]

1980

Storm clouds had gathered above and they could hear a quiet rumble of thunder as they pondered her admission. The air had become thick, humid and anxiously charged.

Rollin noted a small bead of moisture which had formed on the right side of Cinnamon's fair throat. It gently rolled passed her breast bone, glistening chest, then disappeared in a region hidden by the low collar of her robe. Any other time he might have found the sight tantalizing but now he could only think of it as a moniker of isolation. She was a woman against the world, hidden away, never telling a soul, outside the medical profession, what had been done to her.

Until now.

They sat in silence for minutes after she revealed her secret.

She poured more coffee.

He then murmured, "They raped you." and Rollin looked down at his hands. He suspected as much, her fear and loathing coming from no where when they attempted to get close, take the next step in their relationship, so many years ago. Yet, having her admit it was sobering.

Recalling the horror of that two weeks in Solinia, Rollin had wanted to be there for her, to help her, and save her. The torture he had allowed himself to endure had a purpose, designed to steer focus from Cinnamon. If he made it sound, through his agony, that he was ready to spill all their secrets, perhaps Cinnamon would be less interesting. He, as a potential weak-link, would be far more appealing to their assailants.

Rollin made Cinnamon and himself believe that Jim and the other agents were coming for them. They had done so for Cinnamon two years before, had arranged a masterful escape, and it would happen again. He had to believe it. And if he could just hold out until they made their appearance she would be safe. They would both survive and go on to live normal lives.

That was the theory.

For their captors, Cinnamon was just too tempting.

He should have known better. Although his own scarred and battered body was its own testament to man's cruelty to man, it did not compare to her affliction. She was not just the victim of sexual violence but also a mental brutality so insidious she had blanked it from her consciousness, burying it so deep it took an act of love to make her remember the abuse.

Yet, when they were finally rescued she appeared physically haggard but relatively unharmed. He thought it had worked. If Rollin had known otherwise he might not have romanced her with such enthusiasm. He would have taken his time and been gentler, more delicate. "_Animals_." Rollin whispered angrily, teeth gritted.

There was such resentment in his tone, a moodiness Cinnamon was unfamiliar with, and also a deep personal regret. It made her nervous. "Yes, it's true." she said and studied him for a few moments, letting it sink in. Rollin was blaming himself, she could tell, and for a moment Cinnamon wondered if she should continue. However, she knew if she did not he might try to make a difference. He might even entertain a fantasy that they could somehow start again. Cinnamon could not have that. He had to be made aware of her unworthiness. "There is more." she said, calm and nearly expressionless.

He looked up.

"I umh … " Cinnamon gently licked her lips and reached for her pack of cigarettes. As she pulled a stick from confinement, Rollin picked up her lighter and produced the flame. She leaned forward and inhaled deeply. Cinnamon said, "As you know, according to Dr. Evans, I blocked most of it out and probably for reasons better left unstated. But I can't …" It was difficult. She could not look at Rollin as she remembered what they told her in the hospital. That had been ten years ago but she remembered it like yesterday. It had been all very clinical, the way it had been explained to her. "Our tormentors made it so …" Cinnamon took a deep drag and exhaled, _"_I was told by my primary care physician that I can't have children." She crushed out the cigarette, as a form of finality, and shoved the ashtray away.

The implication stunned and horrified Rollin. He looked down at the kitchen table, speechless.

[]

1970. October

He could hear the phone ring - the buzz of one line trying to connect to the other - then he heard her cool, sultry voice. "Don't hang up this time." he implored.

"Rollin …"

"Where are you going?"

"_I told you not to call!"_

"Cinnamon, for God's sake, what happened? Let me come over. We'll talk."

"I don't want to see you again!"

"You said you're going to move. Where are you going?"

"I'm not telling you."

"Let me help you."

"I can't …" she whispered over the telephone, "Rollin, please just move on. Live your life. Find a woman you can be happy with and have children …"

He could hear the tears in her voice, emotions she displayed for nearly no man unless she was playing a part. It broke his heart. _She_ was breaking his heart. "I _want_ to live my life with you."

"That's not going to happen!"

'Why? _Why_?"

"Because … I can't stand you touching me!"

He heard a click. Disconnection.

"_Cinnamon." _he closed his eyes and hung up the phone.

[]

1980.

"You should have told me." he whispered. "It explains so much."

"It wasn't your burden, Rollin."

He had fallen in love with her. Of course it was his burden. "You've been lonely?" he asked. Ten years ago if some fool had told him Cinnamon Carter would live the life of a spinster Rollin would have told him he was crazy. Only an idiot would let a woman like her get away.

"I've attempted relationships." she murmured, "Never successfully. I could never …" Cinnamon took a breath and decided a change of subject was needed, "It's starting to rain." she said, hearing the patter of water against the bricks outside her home.

"Would you like me to go?" he asked.

She nearly said yes but something made Cinnamon shake her head. "You don't have to, Rollin. I would hate to be responsible for you catching your death."

He shrugged, "I can camp down here on your sofa."

She smiled, "I have two guest bedrooms, Rollin. Both are comfortable."

He nodded in appreciation.

[]

1970.

"Try to understand. We have an unpleasant working history together. You can get past it but I can't." She took a breath, "But you have to know, Rollin, that the time we spent together afterwards was not a lie. It was special. So very special …"

This time Cinnamon had called him. She felt a deep urge to tell Rollin, just once more, that she would be gone by the following day. He should not try to find her but he needed to know more - "Rollin, I want you to comprehend that it's not your fault. It's _me _and what happened to us. Please go on, like I said, and live a full happy life. Have a family. You are a good, kind man … Goodbye."

She had been talking with his telephone's answering machine and hung up the phone.

"And I love you." she whispered and closed her eyes

[]

1980.

She awoke at two AM. Initially, Cinnamon thought it was the thunder and lightning flashing through her bedroom window. But she soon became conscious that there were sounds coming from the room next to hers. Cinnamon heard a moan and she sat up.

"_No … no …"_

Concerned, she got to her feet and slid into her slippers. The air, despite her air conditioner, was warm. She decided to leave her robe at the foot of the bed. The silky gown she wore was enough. Cinnamon then walked from her room to the guest bedroom and knocked gently on the closed door.

"_No more …!"_

Startled, Cinnamon entered. She watched as he slept fitfully, his expression slightly twisted by the nightmare he was experiencing. "Rollin?"

"_Don't hurt her!"_

Cinnamon felt a tingle move up her spine. Instinctively, she lifted a hand to touch her shoulder and neck. "Rollin." She moved to the queen size bed, sat beside him at the edge, and spoke soothingly. She wanted to rouse him but not cause a shock to his system. She put her hands on his upper arms and gently shook him, "Rollin." she repeated.

He awoke with an image on his mind that was born from fear, anger and grief. He saw Cinnamon under a surgeon's knife, being cut to pieces while still alive and aware! And when he awoke, when he saw her there, his relief was so great he could not help taking her in his arms. Rollin felt her stiffen in his embrace and he loosened his hold on her, pulling Cinnamon back to look at her.

"I'm sorry." he said.

"Are you all right?" she asked, sympathetically.

He nodded, "Bad dream. Not the first." and smiled gently, a little embarrassed.

Cinnamon lifted a hand to stroke his cheek, touched by his plight. She was not the only one with emotional scars. "It's okay." she assured.

He leaned into her hand, grateful.

Moments passed. Their eyes met.

Then, nearly without a will of her own, Cinnamon leaned in and kissed Rollin directly on the mouth and lingered when he returned her fervor.

Outside, the rain and thunder reached a crescendo.

[]

_Thank you for your on-going interest in _Their Final Mission.

_The final chapter will be coming soon._


	6. Chapter 6 - CONCLUSION

[6]

September 1980

She pulled marginally away from him but kept her hands on his shoulders, "I'm sorry, Rollin. I shouldn't have …"

"What?" he whispered, "You shouldn't want me?" There was gentle humor in Rollin's tone, as he held her. "I am not at all offended, Cinnamon."

They hovered in front of one another, sitting on the bed, close enough to indulge in another kiss but resisting, saying nothing. They merely appreciated the intimacy for what it was. The silk of her nightdress was enticing and Rollin, because of the September heat-wave, was naked from the waist up.

"How long has it been, Cinnamon?" he asked her, knowing she would understand his meaning. She looked away from him, not answering but her manner telling Rollin all he needed to know. While Miss Carter had been with the IMF she was the ultimate distraction, a seducer of enthralled men, and the irony of her eventual outcome was not lost on either of them. "We need to sleep now." he murmured, close to her ear. "I know enough about you to realize that rushing in will only cause harm."

Her eyes met Rollin's again, valuing his understanding.

"Come to bed." He dropped his hands reluctantly, leaning back on his pillow and lifted the side of the sheet closest to him. "I want you close but won't do anything you don't want me to do. I'll control myself." he promised.

"But that would be cruel on my part." Cinnamon looked to the bedroom's open door. "Maybe I should just go back to my own room."

"You really want to do that or do you want to lay in arms that have wanted to hold you close for years and years?" He patted the mattress beside him, "Not cruel. A pleasure."

Wistfully, Cinnamon nodded. She rounded the bed slowly and crawled in beside him. She felt oddly comforted when he bid her goodnight. He then waited for her to snuggle in close before he held her in his arms.

[]

The days that followed seemed a wonderful rush of dinners, conversation, laughter and learning about each other all over again.

Rollin had discovered that Cinnamon no longer favored roses but loved lilacs and, one cool Friday morning, he had an elaborate bouquet sent to her office near Fairfax. Of course, Ivy and Betty questioned their superior about her new lover, wanting to know all about him. Where did they meet and how long had they been together? Cinnamon was able to divert the women's attention with the urgency of a fashion layout that had mere weeks for completion. They needed to get ready for the November show.

Then, during an evening in early October, when Rollin had taken her to _Antonio's_, a restaurant serving only the finest Italian cuisine, she felt a change in the air. Cinnamon asked him what was on his mind, why he was so distracted, and Rollin confessed he had been thinking a bit too deeply about some past assignments with the IMF.

She reminded him that it did no good, rehashing Solinia, and that if they had a future together they needed to move forward.

He could have reminded her that, more than any other, he understood. Rollin was not pushing her into physical intimacy until she was ready, but instead he said: "It's not Solinia I was thinking about."

"Then what?"

"The East European People's Republic." he said and waited for her reaction.

"The Emil Scarbeck case?" she recalled.

"Yes, you were Mona Bern and I was Fritz, the Master of Ceremonies." he nearly smiled.

"Ah yes, and clever Kurt Lom." She smiled and shook her head back and forth, recollecting the challenges of the case. "What made you think of that mission?" she asked.

"We worked very closely together then, rehearsing the act, and I remembered admiring you and thinking that you were a natural."

"Actress or flirt?"

"Both, I suppose." His smile lessoned, "But I hated the danger Jim put you in."

Cinnamon looked at her companion closely, "All the missions were dangerous, Rollin."

"Scarbeck was a psychopath and Jim's plan left you alone with him for far too long."

"Rollin …"

"I nearly did not participate in that mission - thinking even then that I might leave the IMF - but that was until I learned what he had intended, the danger he had placed you in. I couldn't stay away, Cinnamon. If the nightclub act was going to be successful I knew _I _would have to be the one to put it together. I needed to be there to watch over you."

"But why?" she wondered, "Rollin, I was never in any real danger. With Jim, Barney, Willy and yourself there …"

"All Scarbeck had to do was pull a gun or press a little too hard while strangling you … If we couldn't get to you in time, if the knock out drop hadn't worked, you would be a dead woman."

Cinnamon scrutinized him, gauging the war he was fighting within himself, and she began to wonder if she shouldn't be worried. While she certainly had issues to get through, Rollin was a man dealing with his own demons. She understood this but also knew he was formidable, strong enough for the both of them. Yet, at times like this, when he contemplated the past and was possibly feeling his age, wondering if he had lived the best life he could, his melancholy was practically in the air they breathed.

And he was waiting for her. He would wait for as long as it took, he said.

Cinnamon, not for the first time, wondered if that was natural and if she was contributing to his gloom. It was time. She needed to break down some walls, one very important wall if her relationship with this man was to move on. Cinnamon lifted a hand, reaching across the table, and touched his cheek. "Let's go back to my place, Rollin."

"We haven't been served yet." he murmured.

"I don't care." Her eyes met his, steady and warm.

He said nothing, merely leaving cash and a generous tip on their table.

[]

They were in each other's arms, embracing, taking in each other's scent, kissing and experiencing one another, before she closed and locked the front door. They pulled off their light coats, tossing them to the floor and she was halfway up the stairs, urging him to follow without words but actions.

Inside her room, they moved to the bed, still embracing, lips pulling, hands caressing.

"Cinnamon …" he kissed her neck, "… are you sure?"

"Yes." she breathed, "Oh, yes."

They undressed one another, tenderly.

He was attentive but careful, watching her reaction, and when he lowered her to the bed, felt her sudden nervousness, Rollin whispered: "It's me … only me … you and I together, Cinnamon. I love you. More than anything or anyone."

"Oh …" She molded herself to him and begged Rollin to continue. Then, Cinnamon whispered, "I love you too." as she opened herself to him.

[]

**EPILOGUE:**

December 1980

_Mr. Robert Howard _

_and _

_Miss Susan Cartier _

_Respectfully request the pleasure _

_of your company at their wedding ceremony_

_Lewis Morrow Hall_

_December 20, 1980_

_6:30pm_

_Reception to follow._

"She's lovely." Colleen Collier, Barney's wife, whispered by his side as they watched the couple dance, holding one another close, speaking softly as they embraced. The music was soft and lyrical and a few other couples were on the floor as well. Cinnamon wore an off-white dress, trimmed with antique lace, the hem just slightly past her knees. Her silver-blond hair fell in soft waves, held slightly back with a diamond hair clip. Rollin wore a stylish blue suit and appeared quite dapper. "Has he always had the limp?" Colleen asked, "I hardly noticed it at the ceremony."

"No." Barney replied, studying them, "It's not as bad as it once was."

Their wedding had been simple, to the point, but meaningful. 'Economical.' Jim Phelps would have said, ignoring the deep meaning behind their words or how, after ten years, the couple had once again found one another. 'With my help.' Collier nearly smiled, recalling his meeting with Rollin a few years ago.

"He's rather handsome. I feel I have seen him before." She thought aloud, "You say you worked with them both?"

"Yes." Barney sipped a glass of champagne.

"On some of those secret government assignments you could never tell me about?"

"Yes." and he looked at his wife, smiling mildly.

She nodded, knowing better than to press him further. It was the life she had agreed to, marrying him many years ago, baring Barney a handsome son, and never questioning when he came home exhausted - often after weeks away. Occasionally, she would get a call, telling her Barney was wounded, but she should not worry … _Not worry?_ Always mysterious but she had accepted it. If she had loved her husband less they might have parted years ago - but she _did_ love him, secrets and all. He was a good man, intelligent nearly to a fault, and a great provider.

Willy Armitage came over to them, without his date who had disappeared into the powder room, lifting his own glass of champagne. He did not indulge often but, when the occasion called for it, he was happy to celebrate with his friends, "Have you seen Jim?" he asked Barney and Colleen, "I'm surprised he's not here."

"I'm not." Barney said and met the big man's eyes, pointedly.

"Guess you're right."

They had always suspected the leader of their IMF team was deeply attracted to Cinnamon, possibly even in love with her. After the debacle in Solinia, when she and Rollin had left the IMF, he was never quite the same.

On the floor, Rollin asked her: "Are you happy?"

"So happy." Cinnamon replied. "And in six months we will be even happier."

They were adopting a child, a little girl from India, with large brown eyes and a warm smile. They were disappointed at first, finding they had to wait so long but, Rollin surmised, it allowed them - as newlyweds - to have an extended honeymoon. They would spend a few weeks in Hawaii, a month in Europe, and then Cinnamon would want to come back to their new home in Beverly Hills, to work on their daughter's bedroom. They would make her happy … and they would be a family; something neither thought possible a year ago.

They gazed at one another then Rollin glanced briefly away and spotted Barney and Willy, who lifted their champagne glasses in their direction in a 'cheers' gesture. He smiled at them and waved.

Cinnamon, seeing this, did the same as her new husband.

To the back of the crowd, unseen by most, another man with white hair and a rather glum expression, also lifted a glass. "Mission accomplished." he muttered, drinking then putting his glass on the nearest side table.

He walked from the hall and did not look back.

[]

THE END

September 2012.


End file.
